Disclaimer: Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related
characters, events, and concepts are the property of Renaissance
Pictures, MCA Studios, and their related creators and producers. They
do not belong to me, and not a dime is made off of this. . Ditto for
Highlander: the Series, which is the property of Rysher Television,
Panzer/Davis Productions.
Note: Picks some time after where “Art of War” left off.
References to events and characters from Greek Mythology, esp. from
Homer’s Iliad.
Any errors in interpretation are strictly my own, it’s been a while
since I’ve read the epic.
“Vicious Circles” by Karen
Prelude
There was something both decadent and deeply satisfying about lounging
around in one’s private bathing chamber Methos reflected. He dipped
his left hand into the steaming water, observing the disruption which
sent small circles rippling across its surface. Steam rose in small
tendrils making the walls damp and the floor slippery. Whatever could
be said of this Spartan king, he certainly knew how to make guests
feel comfortable. Methos wondered if the king had known about the
naturally-occurring hot springs when they built the palace or if it
had been a recent addition. In any case, bless the architect who built
it.
Methos closed his eyes and wondered why it was so hard to allow
himself to let go of the frenetic always protective shield that he
wove around himself. Perhaps he should resign him self to the fact
that that peace of both mind and body would be forever denied to him.
It simply required too much mental energy, energy that he didn’t have
at the moment. The battle with the Scythians that had just come to its
inevitable conclusion a fortnight ago was foremost in his thoughts.
Bathing the grime and pain of battle from his body, Methos had leisure
to recall details of the past battle and how his newfound companion,
Ortho, for all his gruff appearance and coarse manners, he did have
his usefulness. Ortho knew how to conduct a military campaign. Ortho,
swore to keep secret the fact of Methos’ immortality, and he had
connections with the upper crust of Greek society. Now they had been
invited to the wedding of Prince Meneleaus of Athens and Helen of
Sparta.
Methos wriggled his toes and wondered if the water would cause his
skin to wrinkle like a prune. He thought about pulling the bell cord
for one of the servants to bring him a towel and conduct him to his
chambers so he could dress for the banquet when Ortho appeared framed
in the open doorway.
“You’ve been in that spring long enough that if the Master Cook were
to walk in on you right now he might mistake you for tonight’s
lobster,” Ortho remarked, a towel slung over one arm.
“I don’t care, just hand me the towel and find out what they’ve
provided in the way of formal clothes,” Methos grunted, levering
himself out of the water and gliding forward on the balls of his feet.
“I don’t much care for the design of this place,” Ortho muttered,
handing over the towel and then turned to face the various arched
entryways and marble columns, all designed with fanciful carvings and
shells. “Whoever built must have been either drunk or insane, or
both.”
Methos, now towel wrapped, “I can’t say it’s that bad. I imagine it
was designed more for function than to appease some sense of beauty.
All these interconnecting passages, narrow windows for archers…lots of
hiding places….”
“You’ve lost me, boss,” Ortho, “I am just a soldier. I’ll leave the
intricate plans to you.”
Methos, occupied in drying his shoulder-length black hair, narrowed
his eyes at dark, squat, hairy soldier and considered that the man was
either being modest or he was being playing the fool for his
amusement. Methos distinctly recalled that in the battle with the
Scythians only a fortnight ago it had been Ortho who had come up with
the flanking strategy that had won their side the victory. While the
man had all the subtlety of blacksmith’s anvil when it come to
political maneuvering. Ortho he had other qualities that made up for
that. “How did you manage to get us invited?”
“Every wealthy city-state in Greece are looking for good soldiers to
command their armies, Nestor being no exception and the fact this his
sister-son’s cousin….” Ortho replied.
“Do I need to know the family tree?” Methos snapped.
“No, no.” Ortho stammered, “It’s complicated, but I’ve got to have
money to pay for all this high-faultin’ living expenses, pay the
troops….”Ortho threw up his hands. “It helps to have connections,” he
finished wearily.
“I see,” Methos replied.
**
Outside the palace walls the city of Sparta slept through the mid day
heat in a torpid ease. If some were troubled by unsettling dreams and
explicable messages from above, it passed unnoticed except by those
few. The streets were deserted and the celebratory offerings of fruits
and floors left in the temples of the gods of Olympus wilted in the
heat, left by commoner and highborn alike. It was far different inside
the walls of the palace, however. Music from pipes, drums, and flutes
echoed through the interconnecting doorways and corridors.
Servants got in each other’s way, as they crossed and recrossed the
tiled floor of the banquet hall, cursing each other and the inordinate
amount of food and drink that King Nestor had ordered for the
occasion. The lobster that Ortho had commented that Methos time in the
hot springs made him resemble was not just one of the shelled
crustaceans but two dozen, boiled, baked and stuffed with cabbage,
onions and all topped with saffron. The gold platter that it was
carried in on threatened to overbalance the half dozen sweating
servants that brought it in and laid it on the silk- draped banquet
table.
***
Methos stood at the top of the marble staircase with Ortho at his back
as was proper for a second-in-command, waiting for the court herald to
announce their arrival, Methos who was always noting details of his
surroundings, ascertained the available exits and entrances, the
various court dignitaries already in attendances; the smoky torches
illuminating the banquet chamber and allowed a small grin, noting the
elaborate hairstyles ordained by royal decree of Her Royal Highness,
Clymenestra. How any woman, no matter their station in life, either by
circumstances of birth or by reason of economics could push and pull,
and otherwise coax their hair into an carefully sculpted beehive, was
something he would never understand, even if he lived to be hundreds
of years old. Methos took his attention off the courtiers for a moment
to regard his clothing, fine Egyptian imported linen covering him from
head to toe in folds and banded at the bottom hem with a crimson dye.
**
Methos and Ortho had been placed at opposites ends of the high table
whether by accident or design, but in any case, Methos figured he was
on his own. His table-mate to his left was a man who had the look of a
soldier, a veteran at that judging by the fine dusting of white scars
criss-crossing his tanned skin. He had been introduced by Achilles,
whom, for his part, seemed to take offense that Methos was not taking
an interest in listening to his war-stories, which Achilles
illustrated his thrusts and jabs with the gnawed bone of a roasted
boar. Methos deflected his questions about his own battles with non-
committal replies and the man eventually began ignoring him, which
suited Methos just fine. His table-mate to his immediate right was a
woman, with hair the color of honey and piercing blue eyes. He did not
how she managed it, but she had arranged the folds of the gown so that
most of her snowy-white bosom was revealed to advantage. “Deceptively
distracting,” Methos thought in the back of his mind, ‘and she knows
it.’
“Methos, “ she purred. “What an exotic name. That doesn’t sound Greek
and your looks, a foreigner, I’ll wager. Might I inquire where you
were born?” Oh, it’s no shame to come from other lands. Half the
population of Knossos are from other parts of the empire.”
“Out east from the Greater Steppes, your Highness. Methos rolled the
taste of the fine white wine around on his tongue. “It’s not where I
was born, just the place I was a long time.” The nobility of the realm
certainly enjoyed loud table talk, mostly of politics, territorial
disputes that supposedly would be solved by this marriage between the
two city-states. Methos supposed that he could learn something by
absorbing what he could. As his old comrade-in-arms and former
Horsemen, Kronos, had once said, ‘Fighting the god-damned war is the
easy part, but try occupying a conquered people, now that’s the hard
part.” Methos tossed his head back and laughed. He missed Kronos, and
the rest of his brother Horsemen, Silas and Caspian,. Methos had
serious doubts that he would ever find they’re like again. Then a
troubling thought occurred to him, ‘would he want to bring back the
Four Horsemen? Would he want to become Death on a Horse? How far had
he come in a few short season from what he had once been? Was he the
same person. The thoughts flashed through Methos’ mind, and came up
with the answer, NO.” Methos shook his head and sighed.
“Does your name have any significance among those tribes?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“You are very young to have attained the rank of commander of your own
army,” Achilles interrupted.
“Correct me if I’m mistaken, but so was one of your greatest military
generals, Alexander,”
“You, Sir, are hardly Alexander, the man called Ajax interrupted,
seated beside Ortho. “With one hand tied behind my back I could easily
snap you in two.” Ajax laughed, hearty and from the belly, flexing his
massive arms
Methos smiled, a narrow thinning of his lips, so tight it resembled
the rictus smile of a corpse and drank more wine. “With no proof, I’ll
take your word for it, otherwise I would not wish to wager on it.”
“Good head on that one’s shoulders,” Menleaus whispered to Ortho.
“You have no idea,” Ortho muttered under his breath.
Ajax spluttered, unable to form words for a second, and the wine
spilled onto his shirt. “Well, well, the puppy has teeth. Good show,
man. I shall be eager to fight beside you.”
“Indeed,” Clymenestra murmured, poking the prongs of her fork into the
linen tablecloth leaving five, evenly spaced puncture marks in the
fabric. “More wine?”
“Yes.”
“Dearest, “Agamemnon interrupted, “You mustn’t monopolize our guests.”
“My husband is correct. “ Clymenstra blushed, “I do forget myself at
times. She rose to her feet, “If you’ll excuse me, I have duties to
which I must attend, and Princess Helen, poor dear, has a wedding to
prepare for.”
“I had all but forgotten,” Menelaus blushed, covering it with a
napkin.
“That is the spirit, man,” Ajax grinned. “A woman is a woman, and they
are as plentiful as. I can’t think of an appropriate contrast at the
moment, my head is too muddled with this fine wine. Hoi! Servant,
refill my cup, lazy bones!”
‘You should talk, Ajax,” Agamemnon replied, ‘you with your string of
court girls and bull dancers, it’s no wonder none of their fathers
have approached you yet with offers of marriages or alliances.”
“And I should be so obligated to select a wife?” Ajax asked.
“No, but it is a pleasant diversion,” Ortho ventured to offer.
“Are you married?” Meneleaus asked
“Once,” Ortho shrugged. “She died in a raid by the Scythians.
“I had no idea,” Methos said.
“I never told you,” Ortho said, and resumed eating without
contributing anything more to the conversation.
****
Meanwhile,
A shepherd, tending his flock, took a moment in the sweltering heat of
summer, to lie down in the shade of an olive grove. His charges did
not need to be watched all the time and he trusted that they knew
their master well enough that they would not be inclined to stray out
of the protective ranged of his sight or at least a shouted command.
His blond hair hung lake over a handsome face with wide blue eyes and
a curving mouth. He lay directly beneath the boughs of the tree, his
head pillowed on wool and fur lined cloak. His hands were engaged in
coaxing noises that he regarded as music from a eight-holed flute, his
friends often jokingly referred to as sounding more like ‘a randy goat
on the make.’ Paris did not mind, his father was shepherd, his
grandfather was a shepherd before him and had died a shepherd, and
most likely so would he. It was a decent if hard live out among the
foothills of Sparta and in the spring they would all move onto the
plains where the land offered more grazing and level land for planting
crops. Paris was content with his life for he knew nothing better.
Little did he know that the peaceful life he knew was about to change
forever.
**
The first rumbling sounds of an approaching storm rumbled over the
hills and rolled down to the small cottage surrounded by a fenced in
yard where Paris had just tied the last of his sheep. He looked up,
startled, white, hot sparks danced across his vision and he lost his
balance and fell to the ground to land on his rump. Hoping no one
witnessed his embarrassing fall, he glanced up at the sky and felt the
first drops of rain on his outstretched hand.
At that very instant another hand, this one soft, white, delicate
bonded, and decorated with rings ; helped him stand up again.
Paris was frozen, he didn’t how to react, or what to say.
When he senses were once more in working order, Paris came face to
face with the owner of that hand. A woman with auburn hair tied in a
loose braid, and dressed in a flowing gauzy white gown, sandals the
color of pink coral that bordered the city’s harbor, on her feet.
Paris was not the most observant of men, but this was no ordinary
woman, this was a goddess.
“Come now,” she purred. “Don’t be all day about it.” You are Paris?
“I, Uh, Yes, I answer to that name.” he managed to stammer. “Are you.
Am I really….” Paris trailed off and resumed starting at the ground.
“The goddess of Love? Charming. Yes, I am.”
“We are wasting time,” Aphrodite’s companion interrupted. “The lives
of mortals are finite, but even to such as ourselves, time is
commodity that we cannot afford to waste.”
“You always were such a downer, Athena,” Aphrodite. “We agreed that I
would be one to approach this mortal.”
“Excellent,” the other woman added. “Men’s senses are so easily
dazzled.”
“We are having a little wager, and being so evenly matched we cannot
decide for ourselves,” Artemis said. “Whom among us is the most
beautiful.”
“Begging your pardon, ladies,” Paris muttered, “What has that to do
with me?”
“Much and nothing,” Aphrodite laughed. “You see you are but one player
in the game.”
“Oh, stop torturing the poor lad,” Artemis snapped. “Tell him.”
“I would rather not. I would be a poor judge,” Paris muttered, trying
to avoid staring into the eyes of the trio of goddesses and drill a
hole for himself where he could bury his burning shame at being forced
into this position.
Aphrodite glided towards him and wrapped her fingers around his chin,
forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I’m afraid, oh lost little lamb,
that you have no choice.”
“I do not understand,” Paris whispered.
“It is very simple,” Artemis replied. “You see before you three
goddesses, we are deadlocked in this contest, and for simplicity’s
sake, we have decided to allow a mortal man to select the winner. The
reward is this. “ She snapped her fingers and clasped between her
gloved hands was a round, shimmering object no bigger than
“Use it and you can have your pick of any woman in the world, even the
most beautiful, and your destiny will be made.”
“My destiny?”
“You will not spending the rest of your mortal life as a tender of
ship,” Artemis replied. “Instead, your true parents were royalty of
the city of Troy. It was foretold that you would be either the savior
or destroyer of your city. The prophecy was never clear on that
matter, was it, Athena?”
“I cannot remember,” Athena replied, shaking her head.
“Either way, the choice is yours,” Artemis said.
Paris, at that instant wanted very badly to have some other destiny
than tending the sheep for the rest of his life, a wayward part of his
mind, found himself silent shouting to run away as fast as his feet
would carry him; he could never hope to outrun anyone, much less the
swift Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis, let alone her immortal sisters.
Paris thought about deals with the gods of Mt. Olympus, thought about
this stranger prophecy that he was the subject off, it was too remote
, too out of the ordinary, and suddenly he wanted this strange
destiny, wanted so badly he could taste it, and stretched out his hand
for the golden apple.
“Your decision,” Artemis demanded, arms folding over his chest.
“I have chosen, Aphrodite.”
“Wrong or right, the choice has been made,” Artemis sighed, and placed
the golden apple into the palm of his hand. It was surprisingly light
and airy, as if it was hollow on the inside. Paris turned it over and
over in his palm and wondered how much gold went into its making, when
the thundering sound returned and he was tossed back by an invisible
force into his home.
**
Scene 4
In the royal herb garden
Helen tugged at the intricate and delicate silk laces that bound the
layers of filmy fabric to her body and wondered if the royal
seamstresses had been ordered to make a dress so confining that
whoever wore could not even breath. She considered yelling at them but
what good would that do,’ she thought, In the back of her mind she
knew that it was her own fault in not have spoken up when the wedding
dress was being made and have ordered it then to be sewn exactly to
her specifications; she had been distracted by more important matters
like enjoying her own pursuits. Needlework was boring and wearing on
her delicately boned fingers and made her fingers red and swollen, not
at all attractive. Oh, there were other garments in her wardrobe
suitable for more active pursuits, such as climbing the trellis east
wall and climbing down to the gardens and hoping that a handsome
prince or lesser nobility would happen by and chance to see her
admiring her reflection in the garden reflecting pool. Her golden hair
hanging loose over face, as was maidenly proper. It was part of the
game played by young people, but it was nothing more than a game. It
was never intended to be taken seriously, a flirtatious glance,
perhaps a light peck of the cheek or a more daring kiss, but never
promised anything beyond that, for if it did, her watchful governess
would swoop in and forcibly have the daring young man removed.
Helen thought with some regret, now the game was coming to an end, her
sister, Clymenstra, had patiently and kindly explained that as a royal
princess she had obligations that befitted her station, that
princesses married for love, marriages are arranged for political
reasons and she could thank the Gods that she had been fortunate in
the man she had married. She had grown to love King Agamemnon. “A hard
man, but a good one,.” Clymenstra had observed. Helen bit her lip,
afraid that Prince Meneleaus would turn out far differently. :The
apple has fallen farther from the tree.” she muttered under her
breath, noting with some annoyance that her mood was creating tiny
creases in her smooth forehead. “I shall have my servants treat that
with the recent shipment of Byzantine oils that came in last week.”
Helen left off admiring herself in the reflecting pool and
straightened her skirts, showing just enough of a well-turned ankle to
leave something to the imagination of admiring young man but not
enough to be scolded for scandalous behavior by her maid-servants. She
moved towards the entry way off the garden and into the palace proper
when her breath caught in her throat and she her harsh breathing, a
scramble on the far wall across for where she stood, the gasp as a
blade pierced heavy leather armor and flesh, and then a thud, a curse
muffled by the crash of marble and stone bricks.
“Who is there?” Helen demanded, wishing at the last minute that she
had remembered to attach her small silver knife with the jeweled hilt
that had been a pre-nuptial wedding present from her future father-in-
law King Agamemnon. She realized, too late, that she had left it lying
on her end table next to the vase of day lilies and hyacinths watered
and carried for by her body servants. Crossing the inlaid mosaic
tiles, heedless of the plants she crushed beneath her slippered feet.
Helen moved forward, keeping her palm raised, hoping the intruders
would think she held a knife in her hand.
**
Paris thought him self a perfect fool for agreeing to drink with the
three men who first stole his best goat, panicked the flock of ship,
and laughed at him when he feel into the water trough meant for the
horses of the royal stables. His lank blond hair hung over his in
soaked ringlets, his clothes clung to his lithe figure, and to make
matters worse, the hurt look in his father’s eyes, when told of his
son’s slacking negligence s somehow that hurt worse than the blows of
fists and the knife blade that grazed his ribs. Paris, could bear up
under everything else that had happened this afternoon, except
disapproval of his father. If those soldiers really were from Troy,
Paris thought to himself, what do they want with me. It’s more than
their livers’ are worth to be caught in the heart of the Greek city-
states. Peasant or no, I do a thing about a thing or two, and this is
no time to be stealing livestock from his Highness King Nestor.” Paris
realized that he was talking to himself but didn’t care. He shifted
around on the balls of his feet. He liked being a shepherd, but they
did not make for great conversationalists even at the best of times.
****
“I know someone is there, come forward if you have the courage,“ Helen
demanded, her hand shaking and she allowed it to drop to her side. “Or
must your mischief be conducted in the dark?”
“Hardly in the dark, my lady,” Paris replied, glancing down at his
disheveled appearance, “Forgive the abrupt entrance but circumstances
have forced me to take a more cautious route.” Paris took a look at
her, the wheat blond hair cascading down her back, the blue eyes that
pierced through fabric and flesh and saw right to his soul. Paris had
never seen any women so beautiful and for a moment his tongue stuck to
the roof of his mouth and he was unable to get any words out.
Helen him over and was about to dismiss him as a mere servant, the
damp hair, leather clothes and sandaled feet and was about to call for
the guards, her mouth was open, the words on her lips when the motion
was halted by a pair of salty lips pressed against hers, tasting of
mint julep. Helen was of two minds about what to do about the sheer
impertinence of young peasants these days. She was royalty and engaged
to be married, but it was nice to be admired, and she had to admit if
one overlooked the clothes and the dirt, and the look of instinctive
fight or flee in blue eyes the color of the ocean in the winter, he
was certainly good to look at.
“My lady,” Paris said when he recovered use of his tongue. “I shall be
honored to tell you my story if you could but tell me where we are.”
“The House of the Double Axes, the Palace of King Nestor.” Helen
obliged him. “On the eve of my wedding.”
“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude.” Paris turned and was about to
leave again by climbing the ivy-choked wall when he heard Helen call
out. “Wait! Don’t go.”
“I do like tales,” Helen smiled, enjoying the game. Here was one who
admired her simply for herself not for herself as a princess of the
realm, or her looks, or her eligibility as a wife, or her political
connections, but herself. It was a frightening and a heady sensation.
One she had never felt before and it she found it enjoyable.
Helen walked over to sit on a marble bench near a bank of trellis
roses in full bloom. She arched one delicate eyebrow and invited him
to sit beside her, patting the space with a slim-fingered hand. Paris
looked at her than at the bench. He chose to sit down on the floor of
the garden..
“Is marriage to this man hateful to you?” Paris blurted out, not
realizing what he was asking, but wanting her answer as badly as he
ever wanted anything in his life.
“It is my duty,” she replied.
“Is that all?”
“It is enough,” she said.
“What would you say to a proposition?”
“Bold, but highly improper. I am…”
“Hush, I hear someone approaching. Paris twisted to his feet and
placed a finger over her mouth.
Tense moments later, he moved away. “They are gone. I am a
disinherited prince of Troy, and I wish to reclaim my birthright. Come
with me.”
“You wish me to go to our enemies? It is all so very strange.”
“They will love you, as I do,” Paris replied, embracing her again, not
realizing that he hand his hand in a pocket and that he was rubbing
the golden apple.
“I have a solution to our dilemma. We shall elope!”
“Yes, then I shall go and gather money and clothing for our departure.
Wait for me by the lilacs at the base of this wall. She sighed. “You
have no idea how happy this has made me,” Helen whispered, kissing him
on the lips with the fire of adventure in her blue eyes.
“ I shall wait.”
****
Scene 5
“Prince Menealeaus! Where is he? I must speak with him. It is urgent“
the chief steward gasped, running, his breath burning in his lungs.
“He is here,” Ajax yelled, bolting from his chair at the banquet table
and leading the exhausted steward up to the high table. “Now, man,
what is so urgent that you had to nearly kill yourself bringing it to
us?”
The steward gasped for breath, the throb of his pulse beating double
time. “My lord, it is with great sorrow that I bring you this. Please
spare, this unworthy servant’s life.”
Ajax swatted the man on the back, and the steward nearly fainted. With
a grin, Ajax snagged a pitcher of water and poured it down the man’s
throat. “Now, tell us.”
“My lady, Helen has run away with a spy from Troy” the man rattled out
all in one breath.
“Is this true?” Ajax demanded.
“I wish it were not, my lord,” the steward replied. “But I saw with my
own eyes. They were caught in a most compromising position in the
royal herb garden. I overheard them making plans to elope while I was
overseeing the kitchen servants to gather herbs for the soup.”
Prince Menelaus “How dare she! How dare our enemies sneak into our
towns, our palaces, and take what is mine! They must pay for this
sheer arrogance! Pay dearly!”
“I think he’s about to have a fit,” Ortho remarked, moving over to sit
beside Methos when no one was looking. “And here I thought this would
be a dull social affair. He shrugged. “Shows what I know.”
“You grub,” Methos snarled, grabbing the shorter man by the collar of
his tunic, “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been married before, you
could have warned that the bride to be would try something like this.”
“Like what? Running out on her husband-to-be?” Ortho whispered, “Let
loose of the threads, you’re choking me.”
Methos loosed his grip on Ortho’s collar and subsided back into his
chair. “It’s not the battle I wanted. This has nothing to do with me,
and I owe no one here any favors.”
“What’s the matter with you? Ortho spluttered. “It’s a battle.
Ignoring the silently fuming Methos he turned to his table mate, Ajax.
“How far is it to Troy?”
“No one would call it short. A matter of several seasons on the open
ocean, perhaps more, and then a long overland march,” Ajax said. “It
could be done, but it would need many men of both horse and on foot.”
“Not to mention the cooperation of the other rulers,” Ortho added. “If
you’d ask me, which no one did, they are just looking for an excuse.”
“This means war!” Meneleaus shouted, pumping his fist in the air,
ignoring the whispered cautions of the assembled guests.
Men rose and tried it seemed either to encourage the young man in his
fevered cry for open warfare, while an older man, whose black hair was
shot through with gray streaks, giving a salt-and-pepper look stood up
and, banging a spoon against his glass, demanded order, and announced.
“I advise caution, gentlemen. True, what this young pup from Troy has
done merits harsh and instant retribution. But declaring open warfare
is foolhardy.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” Menelaus demanded, rounding on the
older man.
“We send an envoy, with demands for the safe return of Princess Helen
and adequate recompense for the trouble, perhaps a tribute in gold and
jewels.”
“Do you honestly believe they will honor such a request?” Methos
asked, interested in spite of him self.
“It’s no secret that Trojan corsairs have dared to raid, ransack and
take our own Greek maidens and youths captive, to be used as slaves,”
Agamemnon remarked.
“Our enemies could argue the same thing, and it would amount to about
the same thing, not much,” Nestor replied.
“Then, we are committed?” Meneleaus demanded of the room in general,
his eyes were too bright and his brown hair stood out in bristles like
the spines of a porcupine.
“I have your vow of that you will support me in this endeavor, my
brother,”
“I shall, that I vow, and let the gods be my witness,” Agamemnon
stated, rising to his feet and clasping his brother’s forearm.
Scene 6 Sailing to Troy
Months afterward
Methos cursed the inefficiency of three separate fleets under the
command of three very different commanders,. “Damn, stiff-necked,
arrogant bastards,’ he muttered under his breath, unaware of the
amused and look in Ortho’s eyes as he watched him pace up and down the
port side of the ship the carried the bulk of the ground troops.
Prince Meneleaus was in command since it his wife that had been
kidnapped by the Trojans, but King Agammenon was in overall command.
Which worked fine on paper, and the documents that all the rulers had
signed were as legally binding as anything on this side of the Aegean,
but it was far different trying to get the assorted horses, weapons,
soldiers, armor loaded onto the ships. They ocean was not a forgiving
mistress as Methos had cause to recall, thinking back to the time he
had crossed over from east of the Aegean on the “Osprey,” a Phoenician
craft, the he had since learned made excellent trading partners, but
they were a superstitious lot, given to sacrificing otherwise
excellent and valuable gold and silver ornaments to the various land,
sea, and earth gods to indulge favors for good sailing weather,
favorable times to plant, to when to have children. Methos found it
all highly amusing and rather worthless, while he had to admit he
couldn’t exactly find an adequate explanation for these ‘gods’,
existence; what it all boiled down to, was that the only thing he
really believed in was himself, and Ares, if he was still around and
interested in him, could take a flying leap off his war chariot.
Methos allowed a small smile to slip out, a narrowing of his thin
narrow lips, but it did not last very long. “Shouldn’t have eaten all
that rich food at the banquet,” he chided himself, “You’d think being
Immortal would give me advantages over being sea-sick. This is absurd,
it’s all a case of mind over matter.”
The ship hit a nasty patch of water and he lost his grip on the
railing and sent rolling into a stack of barrel containing fish oil
used to coat the sails. Methos let out a groan and clenched his teeth
together, cursing when he bet through his tongue. A passing sailor
gave him a pitying look, and chuckled. “Don’t worry, mate,” he added.
“Takes landlubbers a good mite to get ther sea-legs. Ye’ll be comin
along in no time”
Methos glared at the sailor, too dumb to realize that the Immortal did
not appreciate being made the butt of a crude joke, and if he felt
better would have taken the opportunity presented and slammed his fist
into the sailor’s gap-toothed mouth. As it was, Methos was unable to
rise to his knees and take a half-hearted swing before he feel back
onto the dock, moaning. Looking over the railing at the rushing green
water of the ocean below, convinced him that when the sailors brought
around the beef stew, he would refuse on account of his queasy
stomach. “Dam sight, unfair this is. Must be punishment for leading a
wretched life.”
“Hah!” Ortho laughed, coming up with a wooden bowl of beef stew. “Have
some of this, the cook insists that you do. Although, I would rather
eat my boot leather, it’s at least salty.”
“I could not keep anything down,” Methos snapped. “Take it away.”
“Let’s go below, some of the men have started up a dice game and I
think it would take your mind off the ocean.”
“Dice game?”
“Yes, we might make a killing depending on the fall of dice”
“Lead the way.”
****
A month later
At the Straits of Scylla and Charbydis
Sandy cliffs rose in into the sky in a jagged line from where the
ships nosed their way into the narrow strait. The sun, just crossing
the horizon painted the cliffs a rosy pink to contrast with the brown,
red, and orange of the rocks. Methos, taking his turn at the oars,
paused and shaded his eyes with his right hand, wondering if the light
and fatigue were playing tricks on his eyes. He could have sworn that
he had seen a darker, blacker patch move.
“Did you see something move up there?” Methos asked, tugging on the
sleeve of the man before him.
Whatever response the sailor would have made was lost as the crew-man
standing in the crow’s nest called out a high-pitched warning.
“Beware! Danger to starboard! To Arms!”
The black spot grew steadily larger, emerging into the sunlight as a
gigantic body of a monstrous octopus., it’s pulsating sucker pads
opening and closing, its beak scenting the blood of living men aboard
the three flagships and their attendant smaller vessels.
The creature, scenting the mingled scents of human blood, sweat and
fear, sent its tentacles out in random directions, trying to make
contact. It wrapped its oozing body around the mast, instantly
snapping it in two.
The captain, standing on the helm with a white-knuckled grip on the
helm, shouted hoarse commands over the wind, shouts and confusion. The
crew, responding to his authority, shook off their fear and took up
their swords and bows, firing the creature’s eye, and hacking at its
tentacles.
Methos, feeling the tension build up inside him, felt clear headed-he
stood up, his legs wobbling for a moment before his mind ordered them
to obey. He shook his head, sweat making his dark hair hang limply
over his eyes. He brushed it aside with the back of his free hand, the
left holding onto the ship’s railing while he gathered his balance.
The nausea in his stomach faded, replaced with the adrenaline rush of
action and battle. Methos thought for an instant to look for Ortho and
found him in the knot of sailors attacking the sea-monster. Methos,
yanked his sword from the sheath he wore strapped to his back and ran
forward, teeth bared in a fierce rictus smile. He arced a high blow
midway on the tentacle, backing up when a black oozing goo seeped from
the wound. Hacking away at the others within reach, spinning and
darting away to avoid being hammered by a return blow. Time passed but
it ceased to have meaning while spun and struck, blood and sweat
pouring from off his body, the front of his tunic wringing wet, a damp
patches spreading across it.
A booming sound like thunder in a clear sky made Methos look towards
the aft section where the sailors had regrouped, and he saw Ortho
standing beside him, holding a wooden cup of water. Without a word,
Methos accepted it and drank it down, when the cup fell from his
hands, and the breath rattled in his lungs. He gasped, it felt as
someone had dropped an anvil on his chest; it hurt to breath. It hurt
to move. Irritably, he shoved the weight aside but there was nothing
there but air.
Then he lost focus, and as if from a remote distance he heard Ortho
calling him, but it was hard enough to concentrate on breathing to pay
attention, and the last thing he recalled before losing consciousness
was: “Do not do this to me, you son of bitch.”
****
Afterwards
“There is nothing you can do.” Ajax remarked, leaning over Methos’
prone body.
“No! Ortho shouted, dry-washing his hands. “You have healers onboard,
there must be something they can do.” “He has lost too much blood, I’m
surprised he has lasted this long. I would have expected to have died
before sunset.”
“Can we not move him below?”
“I am no healer, but I have been on enough battlefields to know a dead
man when I see one, moving him would only make his death quicker. You
are his friend?”
“Yes,” Ortho whispered.
“Then as his friend, the best thing you can do for him, is stay with
him until he dies, the fates were not kind today, we lost many good
men.”
“Wait! Ortho shouted, “Ajax!”
**
Methos heard their voices from a great distance, as if he stood on a
distant hillside and they on the opposite side and shouted to make
themselves heard over the roaring of a storm, the rain coming down.
Methos thought they were discussing him, and a part of him wanted to
respond, if only to hear the sound of his own voice, because inside
his head there was silence. It was difficult to concentrate, his bones
ached. He struggled to move his limbs, and the fingers of his right
hand twitched, loosing his grip on his sword hilt. It dropped to the
deck with a ringing crash. At that instant the tingling sensation
spread to his arms, legs, and torso, his head hurt like he’d been
drinking ale for a month without stopping. Methos snarled but it came
out a choking rasp. The tingling grew worse, and it grew into a surge
of pain like being hit with lightning. His entire spasmed with the
pain, twisting and jerking, and his concentration fled. Time passed
but Methos no longer cared, the pain was his entire existence, blue
flickering flashes setting of sparks all over his body.
**
Afterwards
When the pain subsided Methos sat up, gasping for air, his lungs
burning. He was thirsty, Ortho, who had knelt by his side throughout
the entire ordeal, held a cup to his Methos cracked lips.
“By the Gods, I have never anything like that,” Ortho whispered.
“You must be cursed by the gods,” Ajax said, shoving his way through
the decked littered with the bodies of dead soldiers. “The creature is
gone, driven off or injured. It hardly matters now.”
“What happened?” Methos muttered, rubbing his temples where a
lingering head ache refused to go away.
“You tell me. By all rights, you should be dead, but here you are,”
Ajax grinned.
“Maybe you have special talent or armor given you by the gods, after
all. Like our friend, Achilles.”
“Maybe I do,” Methos nodded, then ordered Ortho to take him below
decks back to his hammock.
A fortnight later At Aulis harbor
Docked on land again the commanders ordered supplies unloaded to honor
the gods for granting them safe passage through the Pillars of
Herkales and allowing to reach a sheltered harbor without any loss of
life or property.
**
Agamemnon, accompanied by Meneleaus, Ajax and Achilles, led the way
towards where the blue and white striped tents of the nobility had
been pitched, the fabric billowing and collapsing at the mercy of the
unrelenting wind. They all had cloth masks wrapped over their mouths
to keep out the grit and dust in the air. It had been agreed that this
erratic weather in the middle of summer was unnatural and after a
lengthy wait and much heated argument they had agreed to consult the
army seer that accompanied the troops, Colchas. Agamemnon shouted
through the entrance. “Come out, old seer, no one will harm you.”
“My Lord,” Colchas replied, wrapping his robes and his dignity around
him self as he staggered out of the tent, holding onto the center pole
with one hand, the other using his cane to keep his balance. “You
summoned me?”
“Indeed. Read the signs for me, tell me the outcome of this venture.
“At the very least, tell me why the gods have seen fit to curse us
with this foul wind,” Ajax snapped.
Colchas eyes glazed over until the whites showed, and went deep into
the trance that allowed him to see past his immediate surroundings, to
look into the mist of what ifs and what may yet come to pass. When he
recovered, he looked directly into the younger man’s eyes. “My lord,
you will not be pleased with my answer.”
“Tell me,” Agamemnon ordered, teeth gritted.
“You will not leave this place either by sea or by land, the wind will
come again in greater measure, men will go mad with hunger and fear
unless.”” Colchas whispered.
“Unless what?” Achilles interrupted, “Spit it out, man!”
Colchas sighed. “Unless, our king offers his most beautiful daughter
as a sacrifice to the goddess Artemis. I am unclear on this matter,
but he has managed to anger the goddess of the Hunt, and until she is
appeased, the wind of ill fortune will destroy us all.”
***
Methos mingled with the crowd unloading crates of the sweet Greek
white wine, figuring that he would at least get some reward at the
end. Methos waved to Ortho when he caught sight of him standing on the
off ramp of a nearby vessel.
***
They joined a group of sailors who had opened a cask of white wine and
were tossing from one to the other around a bonfire, built from the
driftwood gathered on the beach. They waved and made room for the two
men to join them in the circle. He spent hours in pleasant company,
laughing, sharing drinks of the spiced wine and listening to the
stories told my the sea-going men.
“What is happening over there?” Methos asked Ortho, pointing towards
where men, had removed their shirts and were constructing a wooden
platform held together by iron bands.
“Pay it no mind. It is none of our concern.”
“Call it curiosity,” Methos shrugged, as he stood up and stretched and
strode towards the platform, shoving aside people when the got in his
way, his black cape fluttering around his shoulders like the wings of
carrion crows.
“Don’t go,” Ortho whispered, clutching at Mythos’s sleeve.
****
With a heavy tread that left deep grooves in the sand, Agamemnon,
nearly tore the tent down when he yanked on the entrance and shoved
aside the women who looked after his daughter and the other women who
accompanied the army.
***
Outside
Methos had never had any tender feelings where children were
concerned, but this innocent girl’s frightened gazed pierced through
the layers of his emotional armor and made him realize what a terrible
fate awaited her. He waited until she was handed over to the
executioner in a black cloak and mask, an dagger in one hand.
The girl’s hair was black and her eyes were blue of the evening sky.
She couldn’t have been older than eleven or ten winters old. She wore
a light cotton shift that she wore to sleep and the wind was cold, she
shivered. Her head dropped and she store at her bare feet as if
nothing else in the world existed. Methos snarled, and muttered a
curse under his breath. Someone, some way he would be the one to
rescue this girl and bring live to this melting blue eyes. He fumed
with impatience, waiting for the right instant in which to act’ vowing
that when the axe descended, he would snatch the girl right out for
under their watching eyes.
The executioner reached down and pulled the black tangle mass of hair
away from her neck. Then, with a great show of effort and limbering of
muscles, he bent down and levered the dagger to cut the girl’s throat.
Methos choose that moment to spring up toward the top of the platform,
grabbed the girl and leaped for the opposite side, ignoring the
mingled shouts of shock and anger, and ran for where he had pitched
his tent with Ortho. If they came after with vengeance on their minds,
so be it.
***
Scene 8
Agamemnon marched across the beach, his heavy strides made him look as
if were wading through water instead of sand. The glare in his eyes
would have melted butter, it was so fierce. Methos stared him down,
refusing to let anyone, even a king intimidate him. Methos detected a
small grimace on the thick lips, the puckered scar deepening the lines
around the mouth.
“Something wrong, my Lord?” Methos said, holding a trembling Ipgenia
by one hand, his free hand held the dagger that would have been used
to cut her throat.
“More than I would like, sir,” Agamemnon replied, his hand on the hilt
of his drawn sword. He nodded towards his companions, and fellow
rulers, “Bring his companion here.”
“Spare her life,” Methos whispered, an edge to his vice.
“It has gone past that.”
They obeyed with due speed, dragging a confused and angry Ortho
between him, holding onto him by his elbows.
“Thus, I take my revenge,” Agamemnon replied, thrusting the blade
directly into Ortho’s stomach, watching as the blood dripped from the
gaping hole in the short man’s middle. Ortho’s eyes widened with the
pain and the shock.
”Remember me.” Ortho whispered, the light leaving his brown eyes.
“I will,” Methos promised, the blood of his friend coating the bottom
of his boots, as the body sagged into his arms, Methos carefully
lowered into the sand.
“How dare you!” Methos screamed, whirling to confront Ortho’s
murderer. “You had no right to kill my friend.”
“On the contrary, I had every right. I am his king. His life and,
should I choose, his death, belongs to me.” Agamemnon stated, staring
Methos’ directly in the eyes, the puckered scar even more pronounced
than before.
“The Goddess of the Hunt required a sacrifice before we would be
allowed to leave this harbor, does it matter whose blood was spilled,”
Achilles.
“Hell! Yes, it matters!” Methos swore. “Why?”
“It was an object lesson. For you, not for your friend. I have had you
under observation these past few seasons, and one thing has become
clear, for those with eyes to see. You think far too highly for
yourself. You are arrogant, cold, haughty to those you consider your
inferiors.” The man was about as tall as Methos, and faced him at eye
level, his shoulders were broadening, and the light of the setting sun
made his appear to be all planes and angles, his blue eyes were icy
with contempt.
“Which is anyone other than yourself and those in your circle of
confidence,” Meneleaus interrupted.
“We are ahead of schedule. We are winning the great Game, and all the
glory will go to us when we beat the Trojans back to their sea wall.
Then we will sack and burn their city. I do hope that does not
conflict with your loyalty to your friend,.” Agamemnon said.
“I will see to it, that he has a proper burial,” Menelaus offered,
gesturing to the soldiers to pick up the dead man and wrap him in
white cloth, and take him away to prepare for burial.
“I will not forget or forgive this, my Lord,“ Methos whispered,
whirling on his heel and marching off along the sand to a sheltered
cove near the headland where he could be alone to gather his thoughts
and plan his next move.
****
Conclusion
The wind and rain that had trapped them on this miserable shore left
suddenly and without warning, leaving the beach scraped clean of
debris and trash. Methos took of his black cloak and wrapped it around
the girl’s trembling shoulders. She sighed and coiled up like a rabbit
in it’s den and fell asleep. He cursed himself for a fool, “What I am
supposed to do with her? It is obvious that she cannot return to her
family. I could take her with me. I owe nothing to anybody here, now
that Ortho is dead.’ He toyed with the idea of taking the girl with
him, he could use her as a servant, and made she grew older.
At that instant the hairs on the back of his neck itched, and he took
a quick glance around the sheltered cove, wondering why his senses
told him danger was near but he was unable to see any sign of it.
“Hello, Methos,” a baritone voice greeted.
Methos spun around, avoiding stepping on the sleeping girl. ‘I know
that voice, Ares/. If you think I will agree to any bargain with you
again,” Methos shouted.
“Do you believe in gods?” Ares, not all angry that Methos recognized
him or remembered the circumstances of their previous encounter.
“No.” Methos shook his head. “Oh, I have witnessed impressive
manifestations of supernatural phenomena, but that is all its.”
“What do you believe in?”
“This,” Methos replied, scooping up a handful of sand. “Earth, Air,
Fire, Water, my self. What I can see and feel, touch and smell,”
“Are you not a bit young to be so cynical?” Ares mocked. “That is a
remarkably refreshing attitude, if extremely arrogant.”
“So.”
“So, I’ve come to discuss the terms of our deal.” Ares snapped. “I am
god, whether you acknowledge that fact or not, and your life is mine
to do with as I please.”
“You would do better with that king down the beach,” Methos
interrupted.
“Perhaps, but others have already taken an interest in him. Far be it
for to fight my siblings of Mt., Olympus, over particular mortals to
support in this tangled mess.”
“It wasn’t you who cursed with this deluge of bad luck?” Methos said.
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?” It’s an intangible thing,”
Ares grinned. What about destiny?”
“I make my own destiny.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you are on your own,” Ares snapped. And we
will see just how well you do without my support.” Ares shouted
vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared.